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A Token of Vengeance

10/21/2014

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As the blinding light fades, the first thing I become aware of is the hardness of stone beneath my knees and hands. I blink, confused, and jump as the shell crackles in my head and Matthew’s voice echoes like a stone dropped in a well.

“Beatrix? Are you okay?”

Relief washes over me—I’ve travelled twice since last speaking to him at Lindisfarne, and I was starting to panic I’d lost the connection.

“I’m all right.” I focus on the ground. I’m kneeling on a cobbled road. The stones are wet, and there is a distinct fishy smell in the air. “Have you worked out how to get me back?”

“Bea, you wouldn’t believe what’s happened.” Matthew’s voice fades in and out like an old radio being tuned. “...in the lab, and somehow they’ve uploaded a virus...”

I turn cold. “Matt? Who’s uploaded a virus?”

“Saboteurs,” he says, clear as anything. “Protesters. Not everyone agrees with our research. They think we’re... Accused us of interfering... Timelines...”

I screw up my eyes in frustration. “Matt?”

“Hang in there, babe. We’ll bring you back. It just might take a few days.”

Days? I have no idea what that means in my mixed up timeline. That could equate to mere seconds or a lifetime of travelling through time. “Wait, I...” But the connection’s broken, and the hissing in my head fades.

When I raise my head, I am in some kind of harbour. Boats are moored in rows, and the sea laps against the legs of a wooden pier. Although the day is warm, the water is grey and unwelcoming. It can only be the English Channel, I think somewhat wryly as I remember childhood summers splashing about in the icy water.

Voices sound from along the harbour, and I turn my head to see three fishermen hefting barrels of fish from a boat onto the dock. Vaguely, I wonder why none of them is helping me. They cast me suspicious glances, but none of them comes to see why I am still on my hands and knees. Have I been drinking? I don’t feel drunk, although I have a sour taste in my mouth, and my head aches.

I get to my feet, then stand there for a moment, hands on my knees. I feel weak, and it’s not only my head that aches—my whole body throbs. Have I been in a battle?

Finally, I stand upright and take a proper look around the harbour. The boats are wooden with sails, and the men’s clothing is basic: woollen tunics and breeches, with leather shoes. Medieval, then? It’s difficult to narrow it down, because peasants’ clothing changed so little over hundreds of years.

I stumble forward to lean heavily on a barrel. It’s full of fish, their glassy eyes blinking up at me.

“Ned—go away.” One of the fishermen comes closer, but stops about six feet away. “Don’t touch them.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I protest. My voice is deep—I’m a man, then, Edward, a distinct Saxon or medieval name. The fisherman’s face shows fear—although he knows me, he’s terrified of me.

“Go away,” he says again, swiping an arm as if to scare me. I turn and totter away.

Further along, I pause, exhausted, by a warehouse, and I lean my head on the wall to survey the scene. Other men are moving cargo from boats to the dock—I spy large flagons of wine, bales of cloth, boxes probably containing exotic foods. A man is chopping fish, throwing the sightless heads in a pile of rubbish. Rats skitter across the stones; a dog pees up against the wall.

Pushing myself off, I head farther down the road. It seems strangely empty—not what I would have expected from a bustling medieval town during the middle of the day. It’s hot, and sweat runs down my back. It’s probably because I’m wearing a coat in spite of the fact it’s obviously summer—or do I have a fever? I touch my hand to my brow, then lower it to find it moist. My head pounds.

I weave my way along alleyways, and if I do meet someone, they take pains to avoid me. Where am I going? To Ned’s house? I feel distinctly unwell. Why have I travelled to this point in time, to this person? I lurch against the wall, and my fingers fumble at the latch of a wooden door. Turning the handle, I stumble inside.

It’s dark, and it smells foetid. I blunder through the small room with its two wooden chairs and table, and through to a bedroom. I recoil at the smell. A woman lies on the bed, her head turned away from me. She is breathing—I can see the rise and fall of her chest, but it’s shallow, and her skin is whiter than milk. The blanket covering her is filthy, stained with a dark liquid. I shudder to think what it is.

“Maud?” I walk up to the bed and sit by her side. “I brought some bread.” I extract half a loaf from inside my coat, and drop the garment to the floor. It disturbs a rat gnawing on something mouldy in the corner, and it shoots off into the darkness.

The room is insufferably hot, and she pushes at the bedclothes, shoving them to one side. My gaze falls onto her pale body, as she’s naked beneath the dirty, stained blanket, and my heart stops. On the side of her neck is a large black lump.

I watch, horrified, mesmerised, as Ned removes the blanket, dips a cloth into a pail of water by the bed, and proceeds to wipe her with it, presumably trying to cool her, as she’s sweating and shivering at the same time. As he sponges down her thin body, I see similar black swellings in her groin. At one point, his cloth brushes the swelling, and she screams, then lapses into sobs.

Ned stands, pressing a hand to his mouth, and stumbles back into the other room. Now I know why he’s aching, why he has a headache. He lifts his woollen tunic and cranes his head to look at his throbbing armpit—the bubo glares back at him, promising death.

The same rat I had disturbed—or is it another?—runs across the floor to a pile of dirty cloth in the corner. It carries with it the fleas that have infected Ned and his wife with the Black Death, the fourteenth-century outbreak of the Bubonic Plague.

I know that graves dating to around 1338 in Kyrgyzstan bear inscriptions that refer to plague, and that it probably spread from there to China and India along the Silk Road, and thence to Europe on merchant ships. It is now June or July in 1348, and I must be in Melcombe Regis—the port in Dorset where a ship from Genoa brings rats and cloth carrying their plague-infested fleas. By autumn, it will have spread to London; in winter, it will turn into the even deadlier form, pneumonic plague, spread by coughing and sneezing caused by winter colds, and then to septicaemic plague, spread through the blood, which is almost always fatal.

Ned and Maud will die, and so will a third to a half of the population of Europe. Whole towns will be wiped out. It will be one of the most devastating pandemics in human history.

My head crackles. Before the scene fades to blackness, I say a silent prayer for Ned, and hope his death will be quick.

Freya
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The Girl in the Red SKIRT

10/10/2014

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“Come on honey, we don’t want to miss a good spot on the route!”

The voice was female, and was heavy with a southern drawl. Beatrix noticed at once that her perspective on her surroundings was lower than usual; she was clearly a child this time. She glanced down to see a red skirt with white socks pulled up above her ankles.

“Sorry Mom,” she said, as she reached up to grab a white jacket that hung like a limp flag on the rail.

She was aware of the clock ticking loudly, and as the door opened on to the front lawn, she squinted into a bright, sunlit day.

Good, she thought, the rain has stopped, he will appreciate our city more in the sunshine, and with a sudden laugh, the girl in the red skirt skipped out of the hallway and into the waiting car, where her mother was busy putting the finishing touches to her lipstick in the vanity mirror.

Beatrix watched the houses speed by from the window, large spacious homes, complete with picket fences and large powerful looking motor cars on the driveways. For the first time she was able to take a good look at her surroundings. One of the most disturbing aspects of the time hopping was that she was never sure where she would be next, or for how long. The historian in her led her to try and determine the time and place as soon as she could, although this was not always possible.

From what she could see as the car slowed down at intersections was a large, prosperous city, the shops complete with vast window displays. Everything seemed to be busy. The pavements were thronged with people, the women in wide and colourful skirts, and the men in suits, or casual shirts, each wearing the obligatory hat. Beatrix made a snap decision that this was the 1950’s or 60’s, but being more specific would take a bit more detective work.

In the front bench seat of the car, her mother and a female friend chatted animatedly between cigarettes. Clearly something was exciting them.

“She always looks so, so...cool!” her mother exclaimed.

“Oh yeah, almost a European style, and what I wouldn’t give for a few hours with either of the boys,” replied her friend with a wink.

“Oh Flora-Mae, you are too awful, you really are,” said her mother, smiling.

The car finally pulled up opposite a structure that bore the words “U.S Post Office Building”, and when Beatrix looked around, she realised she was standing in the shadow of what looked like a huge railway overpass. By this time other cars were pulling up, and she could see that many of the occupants were as animated as her mother had been, and the general feeling she got was one of anticipation and excitement.

A short walk along the grass that ran alongside the roadway gave Beatrix time to cast about in search of a few more clues to her whereabouts. The area around her was a curved triangle of land, bounded by roads that were edged with gathering crowds; a few tall stone buildings overlooked this ‘Plaza’, and to the left and right of the main roadways stood a pair of covered walkways, raised from the surroundings by a grassy mound. Things were starting to fall into place, and Beatrix had a very strong feeling that she had seen the red skirt and white coat she was wearing before.

Finally, they reached a tight corner where the crowds were thickest.

“This will have to do, honey,” said her mother smiling down at her, “the motorcade will come down Houston and turn right about here, we should be able to wave and cheer at the car as it slows.”

Beatrix at once knew the name of the large red brick building that stood across the road from her, and raising her eyes heavenwards she saw the Hertz Rental sign and the digital clock, counting down to 12.30. The name of the building was picked out in bold letters, “The Texas School Book Depository”.

The cheers of the crowd grew, and Beatrix was aware of people craning necks to catch a glimpse of the open topped limousine that carried the 35th President and his wife around the turn into Elm Street. She tried to focus on the windows of the Book Depository, but she was simply an observer here, and the girl in the red skirt jumped up and down with excitement. As the limousine slowed to make its turn, Beatrix began to skip and run alongside the vehicle as it slowly progressed along the street.

The sound was distinct but not immediately recognisable—a backfire from a car, a crack from a bull whip or, most likely, a shot from a gun. Beatrix felt the girl stop and turn to see where the noise had originated from. Most of the crowd seemed to miss the sound, but she noticed that the President stopped waving.

What occurred next unfolded in slow motion. The girl in the red jacket skipped alongside the road for a few more metres, and she could hear her mother call on her not to go too far. Shots rang out around her… gasps from the onlookers… the limousine began to speed up… a man standing on a plinth recording the events on a small ‘Super8’ camera… a woman dressed in bright pink had climbed out of the car onto the boot desperately trying to retrieve something… a cop on a motorbike… a man with a black umbrella… the grim sight of a faint cloud of red exploding above the head of the President…

It was over so quickly, Beatrix desperately wanted to run over to the grassed area that lay to the right of the President’s car, but she was not in control of this body, and all she felt was not horror, but confusion, and as her mother ran over and bundled the girl up in her arms, she became aware of tears streaming down her mother’s cheeks.

Tony
John F. Kennedy motorcade, Dallas
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    "As they say in the Temporal Mechanics Department, there's no time like the present." Captain Janeway, Star Trek Voyager

    THE TEMPORAL CHRONICLES

    The Temporal Chronicles are short stories set in a variety of historical periods. Some have an element of fantasy or science fiction. Others are straight historicals.

    The Chronicles include the adventures of Beatrix Viator - an archaeologist sent into the past, who then gets lost in time...


    All fiction here is FREE. Please do not use the stories without the author's permission. Do feel free to tell your friends about them though!


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